E·ratio 9 · 2007Hyakutake, is a scoundrel, outliving 1000s of fires. crackle, sniff. their warmth was pale! THE DEATH OF BESSIE SMITH Comet Halley is from one of the cities that

E·ratio 9 · 2007 Page 1

http://www.eratiopostmodernpoetry.com Edited by Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino

E·ratio 9 · 2007

Louis ArmandBill LavenderJeff HarrisonBrian Zimmer

Jon ConeAlifair SkebeNicole Mauro

Michelle CahillKristy BowenJulie Waugh

Robyn Alter Bielawa

The Telemetry Chain



Two Poems

by Louis Armand

The Divers: La Quebrada

In the cinema we lived half-asleep, trying to provoke a finalvertigo. Dreamt of nights in Acapulco. The narrow chasmand wavefall and the fall of the clavadistas, effortlesslyswerving from that inevitable point set down in Timewhere opposites annihilate and cruelty repossessesthe broken shell of ourselves. We woke up beneath anappearance, an ironic tremor running through a flatlandscape comprising all the elements of a reflection.How fast can a world turn to overtake them? The seahanding back its mirror to the flawed and unstable natureof a psychology in love with virtù or providence …And those unreal divers, poised again on their high ledge,arms outstretched to receive our invocation to flight—as one after another leans out across the divide. Notto clasp us to them, but to gain a vantage from which to observeour thin shadows plummeting.



Use for Places Left Over After Planning and Construction

Repudiate the old sorrows. Laughter, rebuke. A cath-arsis of ratios, situations, pitfall ofholding onto words-without-fault as thoughyou were an ear. Tensing the un-certain august daylight: a brick building coursed bytime-lapse shadows where the crowd readsthe image of its situation. What differenceis one more walker in the city?All the world’s a stage: store-front reflections—therush of pedestrian silhouettes, asphalt curbs, inter-sections—dry goods hungfrom awnings limned against thesky: these and other signs to be “in accord with thetime” accepting obstruction. Nine o’clockfaces out of the station. Something they are late for andalready rain, already abidingin the dark place where you take off thecovering. And the ingenuity of what it does not hide.



from transfiction

by Bill Lavender

ceremonial certainty

sharp swish of a branch& a hospital ofgrammar supplies we receive but what we give

bury an urn withnot even a cardor chance to declinea notion of sin now vanished

copulating beneath a full moonthose blessed structuresplot & rhymeplant themselves with me here

glorious greentamborine harmonica mandolinspray-painted outpouringsthe ground dry as wood

& even if it could be a harborlet your tongue savorthe wind meltinglight from an olive oil lamp

this is how it came aboutpreferring any futurelove to this presentI could hardly speak



of day breaking for youthe eddies & curlicuesthe mule-tongued flowersthe pear's red flesh

what chanted in darkness &throat bracketed lightnightmare of the Ilying alone

what strangerscaled the wallas we passed in the streetlight of a prison lamp

that bedeviled memoryat home in unhappinesswith the air of one dyingbirds quietly singing

engraved figure guardingthe intaglio selfhow sovereign was my touchI wore your love & pity



nothing

you are the presence ofwhat were suburbs in 1955white nymph anterior attentiondancing stonedno words in you butthat rag of a boylying in-statelike a flowerlike a goldensleeve

god’s assistancethe imminent stingit was a bookthousands of readerschanged in the continuation

the world is round butwhat will be brought to uscan’t be rememberedan unknown sourcewinced when you said it

panting & kissingto coax into lightthat certaindesperate brandingiron hot noonsingular like yourheart with rejoicing

a child sleepsin a pile of doeskinsnowman rootedyearning to respond



you touched her sleeping breastsforgot where you werefreed from beat & measure & for once not retiring

but wiltingcould a dream send upthis dim imitation

that refreshing breezeturns out to sea & sleeps &what monster climbs upinside you to die



The Comets of Edward Albee

by Jeff Harrison

WHO'S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF?

Comet Hyakutake was spotted byYuji Hyakutake (January 30, 1996).its closest approach was 9.3 millionmiles away. it wished to kiss the rustoff of Yuji's nose. but that nose, CometHyakutake, is a scoundrel, outliving 1000sof fires. crackle, sniff. their warmth was pale!

THE DEATH OF BESSIE SMITH

Comet Halley is from one of the citiesthat ape the Earth's knowledge.

Gamaliel & Yehoshua were on a boat;the former had prepared bread for foodthe latter had prepared bread & flour for food

when Gamaliel's bread was consumed by himhe relied on Yehoshua's flour. to the questionof Gamaliel, were you aware of a delayin the journey, that you took much food,Yehoshua replied, there's a star once a 70 yearthat makes the captains of ships err.

said Gamaliel, you possess so much wisdom & stillyou're compelled to go on a ship to make your living.



THE AMERICAN DREAM

Comet Wild 2 is known as The Six-Year Wormdue to the number of years between sightings.

Comet Wild 2 is to the eye as a cat is to a grape.

Comet Wild 2 is a cruel take on a cat, on a grape;Comet Wild 2 is a conte cruel to the literary eye.

BOX / QUOTATIONS FROM CHAIRMAN MAO TSE-TUNG

before 1840 Comet Churyumov-Gerasimenko had an orbitthat kept it far from our Sun (a cow during her milk).

In 1840 Comet C-G neared Jupiter, whose gravity movedComet C-G closer to our Sun (a cow during her milk).

a close approach near Jupiter in 1959 moved Comet C-Geven closer to our Sun (a cow during her milk). since

Comet Churyumov-Gerasimenko was distant from ourSun, a cow during her milk, until recent times, it hasn't

melted a lot: Comet C-G's looks are more anciently, maybe.what did our Sun (cow, milk) look like when she was young?



TINY ALICE

Comet LinearSeptember 27, 1999Threatening the Worldwith Famine, Plague, & War:

To Princes, DeathTo Kingdoms, many CrossesTo Woods, Cold the First thingsTo all Estates, inevitable LossesTo Aromas, a Surcease of gentlenessTo Herdsmen, RotTo Burning mysteries, the Coolest guessTo Plowmen, hapless SeasonsTo Mathematicians, Arrayed lettersTo Sailors, StormsTo Years, An hour Each MinuteTo Cities, Civil Treasons

THE ZOO STORY

Comet Shoemaker-Levy 9was snared by gravity &plunged into Jupiter's atmosphere.some of the debris had diameterslarger than that of the planet Earth.

guestless todaythe path of Shoemaker-Levy 9



Three Poems

by Brian Zimmer

The Eyes Have It for Billy Mavreas

Eyes wide-open rise to the surface,Broadcasting arrival in concentric rings.Amphibious horses fall from eyelashes,Foaming toward forests of moon-bit trees.The eyes heave forward singing,Hooves drum prophetic vowels.Whoever hears the branches callingCraves for heights and starts to crawl.



Marguerite Porete

Parisian square commences vigil

heart’s wing disdains to rifle text

blood & water poured-out secreted

itinerancy’s tongue in woman’s hand

collusive banns between mendicant & royal

Les Dames! transparency exceeds reach



Venus Equinoctial

footstool –magnitude gatheringsilvered(-over)flame underfoot

hag-riddenamong embersocular respiteareola rising –amplitude

of ascensionthe moonlooks downeffacedresplendent



Two Poems

by Jon Cone

THE VALLEY OF RAMS after Lorca

And twoand threeFor the moon above in peaceWater dooms the houras the white sea doomsthe ladymurdered by the ram.The girlis poor, the pine of the pine trees.And pinethe plumeof the neutrinoinside the rose.

And your timebecause callow and hot,and a twoand a three.And crystal cabinsand papal violinsand snow that walks with the worldand a oneand a twoand three times three.Oh the endurance of marvelous invisible meat!Oh golf played by horns of amateurs!With numerous ramswith eyes of beautiful ladieswith crows of rainand hogsheads for the ages!So like a lager of black torsosand halos of the laurel branch.



Endurance pared downto one designated ram.One and oneale-red door of the moon,two and twoale-red door of the sun,and three times threebecause lost mayflies remember all.



THE FABLE OF THREE FRIENDS: a fragment after Lorca

Henry,Emile,Lawrence,

Three heralds:Henry by camel,Emile by eyes and men,Lawrence by jadeless universities.

Henry,Emile,Lawrence,

Three key maids:Lawrence by eggs and billiard balls,Emile by blood and filtered wines,Henry by murder and abandoned magazines.

Lawrence,Emile,Henry,



They are three entertainers:Lawrence is seen as a flower,Emile yearns like ginger for the olive in the vase,Henry for

Lawrence,

Emile,Henry,

Three Chinese mountains,three hatsthree white-outs of snow,and a cabinon lunar crust.

And oneand one and one more:They are three mummifiedinfernal maskswith tinted ears.



Femme-Enfant:a Sonata in 25 Movements

by Alifair Skebe

1

She stands, a hammerswinging at her side. Blood runsfrom her right temple.

How one makes the loveliest of axes.

Poetry and art can makethe most violent of weapons

2

The prisoners at Kosovoare on television tonight.The scene: work camps.Their eyes have disappeared;their eye cavities have become stone.

Breaking stone:one man has a strong armand his body emaciated.Another man, a mangy head.

This is on every channel.



3

The little girl cannot stopfor killing herself.She sees the womanwith a blow to her head:she is in the act of dying,she did it to herself.In the bathroom, the girlstands atop the counter,stares into the mirror.Her expression changesto one of begging,her eyes being more lifeless.

She launches herselfto the top of the open doorand slides down to the knob.One tries to save her.

4

A gunshot in the distance—the stall of a car,the call of a bird.She is on the windowsill in panic.One cannot eat a reasonable meal.

5

The police come to find what has been hidden.These victims—post-Holocaust—hide in the video closet.The house is a former psychologist’s practice:he has moved the reclining chairs into two closets.Four girl-children hide beneath the reclining portion.We must do this again early in the morning, he says.Young women are tickling the girls now,perhaps, the police have gone.



6

The space of hiding in the US:the room is 20’ by 10’,four tall windows begin at 5’above the baseboards.

The walls are paint-ed pale blue.

One wall opens to asmaller room—an arcade—and the bath-

room is off to its side.The tele-

visions work,but the CD and D

VD players are broken.Power

Puff Girls episodes play on one set:to fight crime in Townsville or such:to placate other episodes.

7

One does not know—should she turnon her caretakeror herself? The girl:6, 7, 8 years in age,her body thin,olive skin. She growls.The first of the acting-out.Until this point, the actswere directed inward.She stops when the mancoaxes her with green fieldsand pastures covered with cows.Think of the milk, the wheat;Think of the cheese, the bread.



8

The poet was conceivedon a grassy football fieldin late Spring. The edgesof the court were lined in flames.He has pictures.He shows them to some.

9

His wife looks awaywith hollow eyes.She is asked questions.She does not respond.

10

Pupils point to the life,a chronology of the poet,singling out the conception,then the birth. It is aboutthe becoming, he says.

11

One cannot stop their cries in the night.The caretaker finds the little girlin front of the television at one in the morning.The news seems harmless now,but it’s more of the Kosovo prisoners,seeing their faces in close-up shots.Guns can be heard in the distance.Those sounds are just insurgentsin their homes, the correspondent notes.One can only see the back of her headas she watches; the blue light radiatesin the filaments of her hair.One can become entranced.



12

The camera pansalong the rock wallcrumbling.

The duty isto break more rocksto build the wall.

The prisonershave turnedto stone.

13

They move to an inaudible rhythmwithout seeingthe correspondents.They are breaking the rocks now,she says; and now, somethingof their meager subsistence.One pleads with the audienceto continue support for these men:we are saving them from themselves.we are saving them from their fate,their country, their God.

14

The little girl comesto her caretaker having stucka fork in the side

of her doll’s head.No more dolls.



15

Here is your maker:crayons,clay,markers,construction paper.

Rebuild now.

A little boy mightget an erector set.

16

Frida molds herspine of clay.

Dorothea foldspaper birds in the shapeof her dress.

Leonora colors a faceagain and againagain and again.

17

Once they realize she is trying to jumpout of the window, the psychologistpulls the shade. She now spendsmuch of her time atop the wooden table.Pushed to the wall.She cannot be cornered.



18

She paints a wound of firefor the poet to enter.The letter becomes too heavy,groaning under its weight.She paints pomegranate,nectar, persimmon in theNew England snow. Theimage delights. No emotioncan contain the feeling therein.

19

Her hair haloes a crownof sleepy fibers golden andbrown. Wistful glances downthe hall.

20

The letter A. Intoned. Briefsecond letter, consonantfalling hard. Bakelight, bread,boasting canvas C.Quantitative—she’s barkingin the next room arpeggiosand the grand scale.

21

Inside the stone is a fireToralee, eyes, a blind persistencethe color of old meat.Limestone, marble, amethystdust of the mind reportage.



22

Dorothea paints in her mindbrilliant positions—trappedchildren like ghosts, inaudiblescreams of fancy. Onehears them in form—beauteous transcription.

23

God is dead because hewon’t write back. Constructionprefigures anotherconstruction.

24

Will the poet emergefrom Purgatorio?

25

One must not fear theirstone towers.



The Contortions, Part I

by Nicole Mauro

I.

O fuckall your I’m, and the gone, i.e. the bathroomyou fled to to freesaffronfrom the mammalwhile I over-watered thepalm. All lack–look down, please–at the asstanned by the dawn. If a head is wedged in it(every crymewled between thighs is not that ofbald infant), I romanticized wrong. You’re gone, said a psychic“to the desert.” There’sa dromedary sun there,a scaldtemplate, some vicissitude. The hope is eyes,engorgedpockets. For example, cactiand in the sky comets.



II.

To to–the place,twice, I freaked-out to,behooved. Dutifully locked in the bathroom, allnozzleson, I tappedcode on snatch, gangliafumed. A psychicsaid she felt nice, meaning you,mid-east,petting the humpof a dromedaryat noon. Folds of sand, she said, or perhapsat a bazaar–in reverseof a hinterland. . . Cacti in the corner,succulence ofdunes. Turns out I’m ashithead, been rubbingthe wrongwound.



III.

Head up the ass–I contorted,withdrew. To to, intellectually, Isuppose,itdove in toinform the smaller-grammedorganswhat itknew–that they are viscous,caught betweensolid and fluid. They just sat there, theystillsit, all the while my gourd halved like a rectum,plotted the calvesit would shit. What a bestial day, Ioughtto be reminded of you. O nostalgia, Oformer splendorof everything wan andexhumed. The sun, askance. How do weget the fuckout of thisroom.



Two Poems

by Michelle Cahill

Nocturne for a Shy Girl

Mending her broken wiresso lovely dearest in limbo,staring through cold glass.The days were deadset paralysedby domestic routine obscenityconfigured way too soberto navigate chaotic flights.Fate was a kinder bitch then,the beach a black tarpaulintaunted myopic eyesin legendary car parks,this morpheus god wasa twisted chic heroine.There were no dark ravensor mountain peak score.She felt in minor ambush:undercover stars/ hip-hop moongraffetti at point break —strafe the masquerading sea.A nobody’s junkie missis,dreaming a rainbird’s song,she shined like a field of wheat.



All Dressed Up

Lil’ Bijou’s dancin’in macrame black,an empress of blinghungry for meringue,poisonous butterflies,snow on the headland.A November moonspills its specious light.Dramatic intro’s, drop-insfrom an autoerotic djshot with crystal methand tied to his chair.

To get wastedwith Saturn, Uranus, Pluto.A cracked water hoselies like snakeskin with a lap dog on the patio.We smash plates againstthe south-facing wall.Giddy hostess,yr peregrine eyesare faithless,yr mouth red as bloodshot,a charm I would swallow.



Three Poems

by Kristy Bowen

in which a girl is transformed into a goldfinch

She starts by spelling her namebackwards and hiding beneath

the bed. On the carousel,the women in coats brush

against her heat, her animal smell.The men forcing their fingers

against her nape to smooth the soft down.It’s terrifying: no song, no wings,

feathers in the clawfoot tub.When she steps from beneath the curtain,

a shiver, a hiss like an open bottle.Then a million splinters, glinting in the air.



still-life with broken door

Before the part with the mercury,the fences dark as nails, you couldsee all the way to Wyoming. Couldsee all the way into girls gone soft

and round about the hips. A mancould lose an arm like that, to lightning,to machines. Mile after mile of bustedlunchboxes glinting in the sun.

Before the bad water, before the burning,we opened our windows each night,wandered milky and looseas hinges. Misplaced watches

and old shoes, mile after mileof rusted Fords. Every womangone blue round the mouth,gone black round the edges.



dead girl's love song

In the blue car, her nameis rum-sweet, etched

in the dark architectureof backseats. Elizabeth

of cat tails and ric-rac.Of blue dresses and burnt

out houses. Her body crowdedwith radios and a scar beneath

the ribs where the songslips out. Pretty as sin.

Pretty as a picture of a pictureof a girl. In the drugstore

glow, fingering buttons,her limbs are cluttered, clumsy.

Even her clothes wrungand wrung until soft as moths.

Night assembles black trees,raises a wooden frame along

the highway where the lightslips through like a rough tongue.

Where he opens her and opens her.Tends to her like a cat.



Three Poems

by Julie Waugh

with a view

shards that once were remnants of sky palacesturn to dust as we walk this mileexploding truths and lies are inaudible nowin their decay, but burn perpetually to light a pathuseful in their perdition

our affectations are absolved by the resonancethe fusion of air and skin dissolvingbecoming merely vestigestransient accomplices, such are loversand from a dry north, a dry mouth, words disintegrate

light vacillates around and through uspenetrating, searching, carving initials on our bonesand time for idle journeys, we sense are overthere is a pause here, a realization with some remorsethat all striving, all the fret work has been unnecessary



a love poem

idle imaginings thicken softly out of reachfollowed impulsively by cravings for sudden intimaciesicons luxuriating in parenthesesthe shields of comfort that bestow some right of passage

and like a slow growing tumour, this love for youhas me tethered to an untimely lifea scourge that has often been my only consolationproof, reverberating in a perpetual stillness

it can easily assume the controlling latitude of a touristthen like a winter beach in denial it calls me hometo bask in familiar fathoms of possibilitiesthat never were nor will be but are



intraceptions

questions never asked fall lightly nowlike the first flakes of snow that quickeneven inspired skeptics into believing

and I am going home or leaving onesignposts are such fickle creaturesI only know that you are not here

so destiny is fated to stand and watchwith her batch of newly stretched canvasesshe does not supply the paint but can advise

at a distance, a competition of rewards waitill at ease in each others companybut comforted by their mutual anticipation

these are the pauses where circles beginintangible realities like the gap before each breathportals for self remembering



Three Poems

by Robyn Alter Bielawa

December 19:The Questions

Tomatoes everywhere.What are your thoughts on the nightshade?Acid. Cocktail with lemon.Did you know right away?I used to dream entirely in German.How do you diagnose a flowering plant?No skin. Like eyeballs. Eat eggs for cash.And what of the paneling?Clean. Look to the right of the door.What do you see?Horror film. Juice bleeding from walls.Origination?Cat litter. Brown rug. So worn it hurts.What do you picture all day?Dead birds. Tossed over guardrail. Bridge in water.Which disruption is this?I have no right to sit in that chair.Then what should you be doing?Four walls. Out for coffee.What are you thinking right now?Waiting for the bomb. Skyscraper.The connection?Like a movie. Drained from concrete.



Dear Doctor Loomis:

I have trouble looking at Russians.It was a bad year for the mustache.Orange does not equal funny.I don’t care who your father was, just read.I took an iron to my wrist, and you missed it.We could have examined my vulnerabilityto cotton. Flowers lead to unhealthy attachments.Classical music is a filter for silence.How many times are you going to ask meto rate my susceptibility?I am afflicted, I know that.We never even got to argue.I read about how your chestalmost got crushed.Sometimes, I wish it did.I miss you.I still wear pink.



Week One

There are telephonesin the Republic, he said.Maybe. But I am finishedwith daylight.

There is no differencebetween the seasons.Early winter.I don’t care muchfor New York.

I think about scrapingchocolate from the tile.It has been therefor seven days.I think about it some more.

I leave my wallet home,and tell you to fuck off.Outside, object relationsis a thing of the past.

I am weak in German.She asks me about myworld view. Somethingabout books on genderand class.

I lament, and countto six-hundred repeatedly.You believe that deathis something that goesaway in the morning.Comfortable with birdsin the dark. Dreams,entirely in red.



The Telemetry Chain

Telemetry is a response chain that began in fall ’06 when rather innocently I introduced mysonnet, “Tender Telemetry,” into the discussion thread on Jack Foley’s mailing list. To myhappy surprise, Jack wrote a response. And then Ivan Argüelles followed. And then I knew I hadto capture this. And then I knew I had a chain in the making. Here, then, are

Jack Foley, Ivan Argüelles, Jake Berry, Jonathan Minton,Scott Wilkerson, and Amy Grier.

Tender Telemetry

by Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino

in sets and stitches. sequences.the like and supportive sequences.

a cup or horn or rootare beam and fairly lantern.

welcoming. accompany. readily.a palm or seat or provocation.

unbuttoned. untroubled.propers, pierced. oh dear.

the robin sings,this bear is the color of bread pudding

and this bear is the set of all the bearsof all the bears the color of bread pudding.

and is born, oh dear. anotheras yet undiscovered, unremembered poet.



FOLLY AFTER GREGORIO, WHOSE POEM I LOVED

by Jack Foley

oh dear what promiscuity of poetswhat dreary impervious prescience

we sit in a mahjongg of malstickeating the gall of galimatias (urgh!)

so obviously enphytoticthough roundly entombed in tolyl groups

O Finno-Ugric, when will I hear your tremulous Finsteraarhorn!tellmetellmetellmeswill(ay will)

oh tempora oh moresI do love dirty stories

Uioptryunhrtuurewelq!(Unwept and unremembered!)



to which reply, Oh dear Another,

why trouble your burdensome Bear

why mother this ancient flare

tellmetellmealltalesTold!

once a given smothers chance

twice a little remebrance dance!

who sails so flight this ancient Night?

who fails who falls rumbledown

tumbling in sacks of wooly sleep

will other wake ? will mother doubt?

all shake the bough all shake me out

’tis Pound’s round math we sing

this loudly canto all forgot

by Ivan Argüelles

argüelles after foley’s gregorio’s foley



Berry in St. Thomasino’s wake

by Jake Berry

I was collected. All of us were alone.We knew how to divide ourselves.And carefully.

Still, logic wants its roots,and my hands were muddy.Tugging at them in the red clay.Gathering.

The problem arrives, you see? It is a bear.There is all about her,in her (bread pudding) color. fur.Her odor, which is a raw red shapewhen it rises as you watch her eyes,is primary and cautious, but death.

Here is where they collect. WhereI said I.

From there they break again. Thecardinal that is always first to arrive,red on wet brown, and bare. Andbreaking they are sent. And sent out!Roaring alone, all disappeared.

If you can gather the frequencyhe will tell you.



Folly after Telemetry

by Jonathan Minton

Telemetry is like a bird’s eye, or the linethat divides yourself from your exquisite logic

the moment you admit that your clothes won’t fit.I’m embarrassed when I watch animals on tv: the odor of fur,

the sticky, wet breath, all the troubles of their simple animalpresence hauled on muddy haunches across vast grassy spaces.

But everything seems absurd at a discrete distance, like Christmas lightson palm trees, or grapefruit-sized satellites in their long, falling arcs.

There’s a measure for our errors, but it startles and takes flight,like a bird in the hand, birds of a feather. The proof is in the pudding.

Our telemetry is in the approach of misshapen birds, their omens tuckedunder their wings, in their beaks.

I want to tell them that I love them even before they sing.



The Telemetric Inverse as ProvocationTo a Collapsed Wilkerson Idiom

by Scott Wilkerson

There has been talk of an emerging periodicity,precisely the kind of speculative prattle thatcompels us to imagine stylized departures,wave cycles of constitutive games.Of course, this thesis turns entirelyon the twin axes of lost referentsand certain grim proprieties of faith.We have wondered to what degree thisrepresents your characteristic motion,the (igne)ous differential in tracing againstyour own quilted brocades of memory.And then there was the fear thatwe could not bear the necessary incompletenessor survive its noumenal marbling of desire.What, then, to make of this fugitive talking,codes of displacement negotiated at the edgeof the contra-positive, the disappearing evidence?Yours is that machine of an else in madness,recombinant touch and go, nomenclatures in parallax,unconfirmed rumors of a message received.



The Bear Needs No Poem

by Amy Grier

“Your mind will stumble againstthe ear. Then…” Bear halts—for language convolutes breathing—“…you will listen to my color and eat it.”

She shifts and scratches and liftsher tasty paws, and places oneon each of my pinkish cheeks—her breath is honey and light—

whereupon her eyes glow greenand spicy; a moment of inky fur not hersdashes across my wrist now againsther waist; she sings a robin rooted

in soil and tree; when her fluffy earmorphs blonde I break. Bear’s pawsdrop and I think again the easeof the spacious cave.

Documents

E·ratio 9 · 2007Hyakutake, is a scoundrel, outliving 1000s of fires. crackle, sniff. their warmth was pale! THE DEATH OF BESSIE SMITH Comet Halley is from one of the cities that